


Filling The Gap

by Purplehuntress3



Category: The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: All Implied- all in the past, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Klaus Typical Stuff, Therapy, This is a story of Klaus getting better, and Hanging with the fam
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-25
Updated: 2019-06-03
Packaged: 2020-01-31 17:16:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18595834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Purplehuntress3/pseuds/Purplehuntress3
Summary: "A big part of who we are is what we enjoy doing, what we do for fun. And Klaus- for your entire childhood, who you were was your powers. That’s all you were to your father, and to your siblings to an extent. And then as time went on, you turned to drugs, and that became you. But here you are, controlling one and throwing away the other, not letting them take over your life, and because of that… you don’t know what is supposed to fill in the gap.”Or- Klaus tried new hobbies and drags his siblings along with him





	1. Prologue- Therapy

**Author's Note:**

> SO This is my first work in this fandom, and I've had this idea for AGES except I kinda technically have a multi-chapter fic for another fandom that I'm struggling to work on. so you know what? I'm doing both at the same time! cause I'm a mess.  
> Expect a chapter once every 2 weeks, I do have some of the other chapters written and only have 8 chapters planned.

Never let it be said that Klaus couldn’t make an entrance. Dressed in his finest faux fur jacket, black skinny jeans, brightest crop top, and those stupid light up glasses that meant he could only barely see, he slammed open the door to his therapist's office carrying two Starbucks and said “Karen, you’re never going to believe what Luther’s done now”. He had a thought that this could have been made better with rollerskates. 

Karen was a woman in her late twenties who had an aura that belonged more in a leather jacket at a bar than in a suit behind her desk, but she smiled, pulled out her notebook and accepted the coffee as Klaus passed it to her. 

“I don’t know,” she said, taking a sip, “after everything you’ve told me about him, there’s not much I wouldn’t believe.” He loved how casual she was, and leaning forward in his chair, he started rattling on with whatever stupid story he had about Luther and his other siblings. 

_ Four months sober. _ It was a startling thought. Before he’d only ever gone 30 days, forced by rehab and given his chip on the way out which he promptly threw in the nearest bin as he skipped to his closest dealer. But that was months ago, he’d had four months- 122 days- of a clear mind. It was a shaky mind, a broken one, but it was clear none the less. 

He’d started therapy a little after they’d gotten back. With the apocalypse averted, most of them moved back into the mansion and they slowly got to know each other. It was strange; he’d known all five of them his entire life, and yet he knew nothing about them. And none of them knew anything about him. 

(He remembers telling them about the mausoleum, remembers how shaky he had been as he spilt everything dad did to him. His mind had felt heavy and open, and he hated seeing his siblings so angry but also, loved it. Knowing they weren’t angry at him but  _ for  _ him.)

Vanya had pulled him aside, told him that maybe her therapist wasn’t the best for his situation but he should get one. Someone to talk to, who would listen and help piece things back together. Pogo had arranged the sessions, in the end, paid for them as well (he has a feeling that monkey does not trust him with money after what happened to dad’s notes. Which, is fair, Klaus supposes, but it still hurts a bit). 

So, four months sober rambling on to a woman who feels more like a friend than a therapist. Karen was a blunt woman, which was something he found he needed. Telling him how it is, giving him no other options. The sessions were not about ‘fixing’ him, but about giving him the tools to help fix himself.  _ (“You’re drowning,” she explained early on, “and I’m not here to pull you out. I’m here to teach you to swim.”) _

This session went as all of them did. For the first part, he talked about his week, telling Karen everything that happened. Sometimes she’d laugh, and sometimes she’d do the very stereotypical “and how did that make you feel?”. Then as the session went on, they brought up older topics. Karen liked to split his past up into four parts: his powers, his childhood, the drugs, and Vietnam (or as he liked to think of it, his time with Dave). Usually, she’d pick one of these topics and they’d focus on it for the session. Today had been childhood. They had covered many of the bigger topics early on: the mausoleum, the fact that it took them almost five years to get names. Sometimes though, he’ll say something he thought would be completely normal and Karen will go still, almost staring at him in horror and he’ll think  _ Ah so it was neglect when he refused to feed us if we failed.  _

As he packed up, the usual post-therapy blues settled in. It was like a heavy weight over his mind, dragging him down. It was a good ache, like an ache after a good work out (not that he’d ever worked out, but he imagined it was like this). He felt open, emotional, and he was planning on calling Diego to give him a lift to a waffle place. Or maybe he could send Ben to get him. If he focuses, the others can see Ben now, and sure they haven’t tried it over long distances but he really wanted waffles and really didn’t want to spend money on a payphone. Ben wasn’t in the room at the moment; he liked to sit in the waiting room and wait, giving Klaus his privacy (even though he knew it all, had never left his side since he was 19). 

“Klaus, before you go,” Karen said, stopping him right as he reached for the doorknob. “Can I ask you a question?” he smiled and looked at her. He liked when she asked his permission because then it felt less like an interrogation and more like his choice. 

“What do you do for fun?” She asked. The look on her face suggested she wasn’t really looking for an answer, but that she already knew it. 

Klaus opened his mouth to speak but... nothing came out. He searched his mind- it seemed like such an easy question, he has  _ fun  _ all the time. But the more he thought about it, the less he was so sure. 

Karen smiled, soft and pity-filled - not pity,  _ empathy _ \- like she expected this. “Most people think they know the answer, but when it comes to answering it, they become stuck. It seems so simple, but it's not. A big part of who we are is what we enjoy doing, what we do for fun. And Klaus- for your entire childhood, who you were was your powers. That’s all you were to your father, and to your siblings to an extent. And then as time went on, you turned to drugs, and that became you. But here you are, controlling one and throwing away the other, not letting them take over your life, and because of that… you don’t know what is supposed to fill in the gap.” there is a silence that fills the room as that thought settles into Klaus. He’s definitely not looking at Karen anymore, his eyes shifting across the room as if searching for an answer there. Maybe the plant could tell him, or the old man who was facing the corner wall whispering about knives. He found answers in neither. 

“These next few weeks, I want you to try out some hobbies,” Karen said, “go paint, go do some sports, bake, dance, explore. Find out what makes up the gap. Find out who you are.” 

 


	2. Chapter 1: Baking With Mom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Klaus was prepared for many of the side effects of being sober. Being hungry all the time wasn't one of them

Klaus was prepared for most of the side effects of being sober. Well, prepared might be the wrong word, but he at least knew about them before going cold turkey. The ghosts, of course, were the worst, but he’d perfected ignoring them years ago. The less he talked to them, the less he acknowledged their existence, the less they noticed he could see them. That, and he’d started tagging along with Vanya to her lessons, so when she’d need a break after screaming and smashing things for an hour (which, great way to get out anger by the way), sometimes his siblings focus would turn to him, and now  _ he’s  _ been getting lessons, which have had varying results. On one hand, he found out that Five killed JFK, so that had been an interesting family talk; on the other, last week he banished his first ghost, and though throwing his middle finger up was apparently ‘distasteful’, he knew they were proud of him. He was pretty proud of himself, too. 

Take that Reggie.

He was also prepared for the cravings. The first week after the apocalypse-that-wasn’t, he’d dragged Diego and Allison into helping him clear the house of drugs, and locking away anything that they might need (he was now officially banned from the infirmary unless it was necessary). He even summoned Ben for a few minutes to help, directing them to any drugs that Klaus had forgotten about. They also smashed all of Dad’s alcohol, much to Five’s annoyance, but there was something about smashing expensive items that belonged to their dad that just helped to bleed all the tension out. Especially when Vanya and Luther got involved and they decided to make a game of how many of the priceless artifacts they can knock off the walls with the bottles. There was glass everywhere and shattered pottery but Vanya was laughing, Luther and Diego were playing a strange game of catch involving a stuffed aardvark, and Allison was humming Queen songs while hoovering up, refusing to let mom do all the work since it was them that made the mess in the first place. Five sat with him on the couch, watching on in horror, but family bonding had to start somewhere. 

So yes, Klaus had been prepared to deal with ghosts and his family were all prepared to help him deal with his cravings. 

He hadn’t been prepared for how  _ hungry  _ he felt all the time. 

It should have been obvious really- most drugs would dampen his appetite to the point where he’d forget he needed to eat, and it took Ben reminding him about it before he would do it. Over the last few months, he had taken the opportunity (and a bit of his inheritance) to go to all these fancy restaurants and eat expensive food while getting strange looks because he started talking to Ben in public again. On the flip side, he’d also go to backstreet diners and eat greasy food at 2 am. He didn’t get weird looks there, at least, but he might have gotten food poisoning. 

After his last conversation with Karen, he came up with an idea that would help kill two birds with one stone. 

Grace Hargreeves was a strange woman, and that was mainly because she was a robot. The best way to describe her was intelligent, but not wise, and everyone liked to use the ‘tomato in a fruit salad’ example to explain the difference, but after the first time, she realised it was weird and stopped doing it. She was very good at learning from her mistakes, which, he supposed, might be a form of wisdom. So maybe she was wise? Klaus didn’t know, but he did know he was getting a headache from overthinking this. 

Anyway, Grace was strange, but they all loved her anyway. Who wouldn’t? She made them pancakes with smiley faces when they were upset, and every time they go outside with her she tried to talk to all the animals they came across. And if there was one thing Grace Hargreeves could do, it was bake. 

During their childhood, old Reggie had insisted on a set diet for them. It was full of proteins and vitamins that would support the rigorous training he would force them through. It was also, unsurprisingly, bland as fuck. The weeks when father was away were always the best, and not just because the old coot wasn’t breathing down their neck every two seconds, but also because Grace finally had freedom over their food. A rainbow of food from paella to curries to names Klaus never learnt to pronounce. And that wasn’t including  _ dessert.  _ Their mother dedicated herself to her cooking, knowing it was one of the few ways to get them to smile when they were kids. 

The Thursday after his therapy appointment with Karen was a quiet one. Allison had taken Vanya out for a ‘sisters day’, Luther and Five were hidden away with Pogo in Dad’s study, looking through his old research, and Diego had been out the night before so he was crashed out in his room. This left Klaus bored, Ben annoyed cause Klaus was bored, and Grace all alone in the kitchen, ready to be bothered. 

“Mom?” he called, stepping into the dimly lit room. She was stood (she hardly ever sat, only when she needed to recharge did she sit) doing the dishes. The moment he called her, she turned to greet him, placing the plate she had been cleaning gently down. She smiled, she was almost always smiling.  

“Yes, dear?” she replied, “oh are you hungry? You are almost always hungry these days. I am sure I can cook something up real fast- what are you in the mood for?” 

“Actually Mom,” he said, scratching the back of his head, “I was hoping you’d be able to teach me? Maybe? You know-” he started to wildly gesture with his hand, “do all the cool tricks you see on TV with the fire and make food so good you make a critic cry and make him remember his childhood with one bite.” 

“You’d need a rat for that last one,” Ben said, shifting around Klaus and making his way over to the table to where one of many books laid open for him to read. Klaus ignored him though and instead focused on their mom. 

Grace didn’t often show emotion well (one could argue she didn’t  _ feel _ , since she was a robot,  and one would immediately get a very angry and upset momma’s boy on their ass with his knives), and though her face still held the usual, soft smile, there was an excitement behind her eyes as she spoke. 

“Well, I suggest we avoid fire, and I do not think my food is good enough to make people cry, but we could definitely start with something simple.” she seemed to think for half a second before moving towards one of the cupboards and pulling out ingredients. When she realised Klaus was still stood in the doorway, she quickly gestured him over. “I was thinking, everyone loves cupcakes? They are simple, easy, and we can have fun decorating them!” 

Klaus seemed to have a different idea of baking than his mother. From the little he’d baked, it was all about throwing stuff in and hoping for the best. Feeling with your  _ heart  _ how many chocolate chips go into the cookies. The age-old “was it 13 or 30?” question that lead to many, many failed outcomes. Getting distracted by rumours about being able to stand on an egg without it cracking. You know, how real people bake. Grace, however, was all about  _ precision.  _ You need  _ exactly  _ 150g of butter mixed with  _ exactly  _ 150g of sugar.  _ Exactly  _ 3 tablespoons of cocoa powder, all level. She even started going into what each ingredient does- how the sugar caramelises as it cooks and gives it the golden brown colour, how the protein in the egg coagulates and helps gives it structure. Honestly, Klaus was only half paying attention to what she was actually doing, and more about how happy she was while doing it. He’d noticed she looked much happier these days. 

“Now I have shown you how to do it, why don’t you have a go dear?” she said, covering the bowl with some cling film and pushing it to the side. “We will make two batches, so we have enough for everyone.” 

“Right,” he said, realising he didn’t remember shit about what she said, “just like you did.” 

He looked down at the bowl in front of him. 

“150g of sugar whisked with 150g of butter,” Ben called from behind him, and honestly where would he be without Ben? “In a ditch,” he replied, proving once again he could read minds. 

By the time he’d finished his mix, he was covered in flour, had cake mix in his hair, and the table where Ben sat was also suspiciously splattered with cake mix when the man had said something a little too sarcastic for his taste while Klaus was holding the spoon. He was also sure there were a few bits of eggshell in the mixture, where he had tried (and failed) to do Diego’s signature “crack an egg open with one hand” trick. Boy, that man needed to stop eating raw eggs. 

The two of them carefully poured the mixture into the cupcake tins, filling the little polka dot wrappers one by one before eventually there was no mixture left. They pushed the trays into the oven and set a timer (20 minutes) and Klaus stood up.

“Okay! That was fun- what next?” He asked.

“Now is the best part,” his mother replied, “now we wait.”

“Wait?”

“Oh yes. Being patient is one of the biggest things in baking.”

“... I don’t think baking is going to suit me.” He could almost hear Ben trying to hold his laughter in from the table.

The next twenty minutes were the longest of Klaus’ life. He found today’s paper, tried (and failed) the sudoku, tried (and failed) the crossword. Laid out on the table and contemplated his life. Laid out on the table and contemplated Ben’s  _ after _ life. Made a pyramid outer of cupcake wrappers. Sat in front of the oven and stared at its contents. Sat in front of the  _ fridge  _ and stared at its contents. Tried to read Ben’s book. Got bored of Ben’s book. Used today’s paper to make balls and throw them at Ben. Accidentally make Ben corporeal for a second and hit him straight in the forehead. 

Eventually, the timer rang out, freeing Klaus (and Ben) of his boredom. He raced over to the oven, flinging the door open. 

“Be careful dear,” his mother said, “they will be hot.” he nodded, reaching up to the side for the oven gloves. Tongue poking out, he carefully pulled one of the trays out of the oven. As he did so, he heard the tell-tale  _ pop  _ of Five arriving in a room. 

“Has anyone seen- what happened to today’s paper?” The boy asked, obviously annoyed. 

“Klaus got bored,” Ben said, though he knew Five couldn’t hear him. 

“I got bored,” Klaus said. 

“I wanted to read that,” Five said, proving once again what an old man he was. “What are you doing?”

Klaus pulled the other tray out, placing it next to the other. “Mother dear was teaching me how to bake.” he gestured to the two trays before him, pulling the oven gloves off as he did so. 

“Should we be letting you do that?” Five asked.

“Why? Afraid I’d spike it?”

“No, I’m afraid it’s going to be shit.”  

Ignoring the warnings of how hot they were, Klaus picked up one of the cupcakes and turned, throwing it at Five. However, the boy was quicker and was once again gone into one of his portals. Unfortunately, a certain ghost was behind him, and he was used to being incorporeal. 

Klaus really needed to work on his timing, he thought, as he watched the broken chocolate cupcake slide of his brother’s face.

“Well!” his mother exclaimed from behind him, “now we just need to wait for these to cool, and then we can decorate!” 

Baking really might not be for him. 

~~~~~

_ In the end, they had 23 cupcakes- 11 chocolate, 12 vanilla. It was very obvious which ones were his and which ones were his mothers. Her’s were gracefully decorated- royal icing with food colouring piped on top to create beautiful images. His… well, let's just say they were out of edible glitter.  _

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments and kudos really help! expect the next chapter in 2 weeks!


	3. Chapter 2: Art with Allison

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Klaus had always liked art, but had never thought about painting before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and now for the chapter that i wrote the fic for.   
> uni is over! and because of that im also going to be catching up and writing my other multichapter fic. don't.... don't ask when the next chapter is going to be out. i'm a mess.

_ The blinds were askew, letting in the morning sun that gave the small, white bedroom a tinted yellow hue. The walls, bland with the promise of colour to come; words and drawings to fill them from one of the owners. The yellow was so much softer than the yellow of that night in the disco. Kinder, even.  _

_ The centrepiece of the room was a large double bed. One half was bare; a crumpled bed sheet that was not tucked in correctly, and a discarded pillow hanging off the side. Comparatively, the other half of the bed was packed. A white sheet- tinted yellow again by the sunlight- gave the only modesty to the two occupants. Using his partner's chest as a pillow, one of the occupant’s unruly hair covered most of his face, almost as if he was not used to such long hair. He was tucked as close to the other as he could get; one of the other's arms was wrapped around his waist, holding him close, while the other arm was thrown over his face in sleep. The only identifying markers to them were their dog tags, hanging around their necks.  _

_ There was a shelving unit above the bed, full of books of various different colours with no titles. Neither occupant really read; it was less there for reading and more because that's what normal people had. Books.  _

_ The other counters- desks, tops of tables- were covered in plants. Various different types, but mostly succulents and a few aloe vera plants. Small, easy to keep. There was an orchid in the window, where it would get the most light. A much brighter yellow than the tinted room, with an orange- _

-Agent Orange- a flash of death- people, plants- not orange not-

_ -a purple centre that stood out in the room. Each plant had a different pot, painted to be unique and some had swirling patterns while others had words or non-intelligible doodles. A few were just dicks in various shades of black and white.  _

_ To the left of the empty side of the bed, was a table bare of plants. A clock sat slowly ticking towards 8, and behind it sat a behemoth of a cat. The thing was more fur than a cat, like it was nothing more than a puff of fluff with eyes and a tail. It lay in the sun, basking in it while its owners shy away. The table beneath the beast has a stained circle, like plants had once decorated this surface too, but fell victim to the ball of fur.  _

“It’s beautiful,” Allison said, shocking Klaus from his trance. 

He almost knocked over the paint water where he had been washing his brush. He’d been concentrating so hard he hadn’t even noticed his music had stopped, his phone dead in his pocket. He also realised, that no ghosts had come to bother him in this time, or if they did he hadn’t noticed them.

That's one to tell Karen. 

Klaus had always enjoyed art. Sometimes when he was left behind on missions, he would sit with mother and stare up at her paintings, creating stories for each one. He would run around her as she sat, jumping up and down as he told her how  _ this house belonged to an old woman who the entire town thought was an evil witch but, though she was a witch, she was the only thing stopping this dark black shadow monster from engulfing the town.  _ He had never tried to paint back then, only doodles on his wall or on his siblings’ casts when they inevitably got injured. Even now it wasn’t the most amazing painting- he couldn’t quite get the lines right and him and Dave only look vaguely like people (he had struggled a lot with Dave’s face, ending up with his arm draped over his face just so he was sure he wouldn’t fuck it up) and don’t get him started on the cat.  

Allison placed her hand on his shoulder but didn’t say anything else as she looked over the painting. He was almost done; he wanted to add a bit more detail to the plants and then the countertops, make the place look a bit more lived it. As Allison looked over the painting, he fiddled with the paintbrush in his hands. He hoped she liked it. Sure, it didn’t matter if she didn’t; Klaus had learnt the hard way not to care about other people’s opinions, learnt that as long as he liked it, then it didn’t matter what others feel. And he did; he did like it. He liked the faded yellow that tinted the room. He liked the fucked up cat that dominated one of the bedside tables. (Klaus didn’t like cats. They saw too much- often staring at things that only Klaus could see. Dogs he could deal with, the bigger the better. But Dave- Dave had talked about his cat at home. A big fat one that he had called Fuzzball, that would fall asleep next to his pillow and end the night on his face. His neighbour had taken him when he had gone to Vietnam. Klaus wondered what happened to it). 

“I like the colours,” Allison said eventually. “They make me feel… happy. Peaceful.” He looked up at her. “What? It’s what you're supposed to do when you look at art. Say how it makes you feel.” She knelt down beside him, and he leant into her side. The two of them had been close since they were kids; late night fashions shows dressed in dresses and feather boas. On nights when Dad was out of the house, they’d play music loudly and paint each other's nails. They would invite the others, but the only one that would ever come was Ben, who just curled up in the corner with a comic book, occasionally making comments about their clothes. Looking back, Klaus started to realise they’d never invited Vanya. Another place they failed, he supposed. 

Allison nudged him slightly, getting his attention. “What does it make you feel?” She asked softly. 

What  _ did  _ it make him feel? When he looked at it, all he can think about is the good parts of his time at war. All he can think of is  _ Dave.  _ His kindness, his strength. Klaus had never met a man like Dave. He told Dave everything- he told the squad everything- but Dave was the only one to believe him. To reach his hand out between their bunks and help calm him from a nightmare. To listen to his ramblings on about modern life. The other’s called him  _ Mad House _ but never said anything, never complained to a superior. Sometime’s his strange stories where the only things that got them through the day. Yet Dave, sweet Dave, believed them all. Dave never told him to ‘be serious’, because he never thought he wasn’t. He never told Klaus to ‘stop lying’, because he never thought he wasn’t telling the truth. When they started getting serious (or as serious as you could get in a battlefield) he had told Dave he was a handful, and all the man had done was open his arms and say “well, I’ve got two hands” making them both laugh.

Dave was the first person to realise that his cry for attention, was actually a cry for help. 

The painting reminded him of all that, of every promise they whispered to each other in the jungles of Vietnam. Promises of a better life elsewhere: filled with plants and sobriety and a stupid fluffy cat. Promises they never got to keep. 

“...bittersweet.” he settled on eventually, though they both knew there was so much more unsaid. 

“Show her the other one,” Ben said, and if it wasn’t for years of his brother appearing out of nowhere he probably would have jumped as he did with Allison. Ben was sat on Klaus’ bed, staring down at the open book he’d left on there. Klaus didn’t read often, but over the last few months he’d picked up the habit of leaving books all over the place so that Ben wouldn’t be bored. 

It seemed that whatever freedom the painting had given him was finally over, and with Ben’s return so came the others. He couldn’t see them yet, but their voices were beginning to make themselves known. Calling to him, calling his name. They called out from the window, where the other painting sat drying. It was faced away from them, but Klaus could remember every inch of the painting vividly. He walked towards it, picking it up, but before he revealed it, he turned back towards Allison. 

“Now, this painting is uber scary so I understand if you need to flee in fear or something.” His tone was joking, but from the eyebrow raise Allison sent him he knew it hadn’t stuck. With shaky hands, he showed the painting to her. 

He refused to look at it himself and instead studies Allison’s face. He watched as her eyes widen and her jaw dropped. His tone may have been joking, but he definitely wasn’t. He remembered jolting awake at midnight and scrambling for anything to distract himself with. The voices screamed his name, swiped at him with long fingers and each time they did, Klaus believed feared that that would be the time they would become corporeal, this would be the time they’d touch him and scratch him and drag him down, drag him into whatever hell they all live in. The paints had been the first thing he’d seen, laid out on his desk still in their packaging where he’d placed them a week ago and hadn’t touched them since. He had torn them from their wrappings, losing half the brushes as they tumbled away as he did so, but he didn’t care. Bent over the desk he painted- not taking the care with the easel as he did the second one- there was no  _ care  _ for this painting. There was only making it real. 

He always found that to be the biggest problem with the ghosts, that because no one else could see them, it was like they weren’t real. The other’s laughed and played like there wasn’t a drowned woman in the corner because the ghosts weren’t  _ real  _ to them. When he was younger, that idea fucked him up as much as the ghosts did. 

( _ of course these days, there was so much more that made him fucked up. Almost 2 decades high off his ass- living 10 months in 2 days- failing to save the world, and then ending up saving it again) _

The nightmare had been about the mausoleum. 

Even after all these years, the tight walls and the darkness of the mausoleum still haunted his dreams. His mind was like a jukebox, and every dark trauma he’d ever gone through was another record inside; the collection always growing. But the older records were still there- sure, his mind had newer memories to play, but occasionally it still went back for some nostalgia. 

In the bottom right corner of the painting, there was a boy. There was not much detail to him, and he was curled up, head on his knees as his hands covered his ears. Surrounding the boy was cold carved stone. It spread away from the boy and across the painting like a disease, consuming any warmth that could even be thought of added. As it spread, the stone shifted into letters, into words- one word repeated over and over. One name. It started small, almost unreadable, but as it got closer to the upper left corner they got bigger and bigger- and then, in the corner, was a single, massive  _ KLAUS.  _

The shock on Allison’s face shifts into something sadder; her lower lip quivers and a tear slides down her cheek. But then she grits her teeth, swallows down her tears, and beneath that sadness was  _ anger.  _ At first, he thought that anger was pointed at him, but then he remembers telling them about the mausoleum. How angry they were- not at him, but at  _ Dad.  _ And sure, he knew it was fucked up, had known it far before therapy. But there was still that part of him- a part that sounded far too much like their dad- that thought he was weak. That he’d given in far too easily, that he was a  _ disappointment,  _ and the mausoleum proved that. It was much harder to tell himself that wasn’t true, than for others to do it. 

“Regret,” Allison whispered, before swallowing her tears and saying it louder. “It makes me feel regret. For not being there for you, for not  _ knowing- _ ” she cut herself off and moved towards Klaus, nudging the painting out the way and bringing him into a hug. He buried his face into her shoulder, the painting left leaning against his leg as he grasped onto her shirt. 

They stayed there for a few minutes until they both stopped crying and instead Klaus was just hiding in her shirt because the voices were getting louder again. He pulled back, and almost jumped as he glanced over Allison’s shoulder to see a woman stood in the corner of his room. Someone new this time, not one of the old, classic ghosts that seemed to haunt this place. Perhaps if he painted more-

“Ah, but I have more ideas, dear sister!” he exclaimed as he backed away, quick to hide the emotions just shown- even if, according to dear old dad, he was the  _ weaker  _ of his siblings, he was still a Hargreeves, and that meant emotions could only be shown for short periods of time between 10 and 2 on a Thursday. And it was, glancing at the clock, 5 pm on a Tuesday. At least he thought it was a Tuesday- it might be Wednesday. How long had he been painting for? He clapped his hands, ignoring that thought and the hunger pains in his stomach that claimed it could actually be Wednesday. “I want to paint you!” 

“Me?” she asked, and she seemed surprised, even though Klaus thought there had to be hundreds of paintings of her. Proper, official ones that hung in art shows, as well as fan art from movies that artists would squeal over when they got likes on Twitter. Compared to those, Klaus’ own art would be awful, but that wasn’t what this was about. This was about finding something Klaus liked, and if that included hours of sweet, sweet ghostless concentration, then he’d do it. And also- Allison deserved it. So he nodded. 

“Yep!” he said, miming with his fingers as if she was in a frame. He even pulled his brush out the pot and put it behind his ears for extra effect, but realised it was still wet and ended up with paint water down the side of his face. It got her laughing though, and that's what mattered to Klaus. “I was thinking of doing it like that one photo of the Zodiac killer!”

“They don’t know who he was- they never got a photo,” Allison said.

“No- not the  _ actual  _ zodiac killer,” he said. Obviously, he hadn’t meant him. He’s watched enough Buzzfeed Unsolved with Ben to know the real one never got found. “The one that ran for president!”

“Oh my god-  _ Do you mean Ted Cruz _ ?” 

“Yeah that's the one!” he could hear Ben laughing from the bed. 

He could see the image in his mind; Allison, in the middle, striking a stunning pose with just a hint of a smile on her lips, the one red dress that he stole last week when he was feeling particularly daring. Camera’s would be flashing, people demanding her attention, and she’d be at the centre of it like she deserved. 

“You don’t need to paint me, Klaus,” She said softly, but he just shook his head and reached forward to grab her face. A gentle gesture turned sour when he squeezed her cheeks together and made her look like a fish. Though she raised her eyebrow, he could see the hint of a smile in her eyes.  _ Just like the one I want for my painting.  _

“Think of it like… practice,” he said. She lifted her hands and placed them on his arms, making them drop to her shoulders instead. “I need to learn how to draw people, especially since Five and Diego will not stay still for theirs when they find out I’m going to paint them as Batman and Robin.” 

“I don’t know, some part of Diego may want to see himself as Batman,” she joked.

“Oh Allison,” he sang, “you are so young and naive to think  _ Diego  _ is Batman out of the two.” 

She stared at him for a moment before saying, “what would you like me to say at your funeral?” 

He just laughed, and she quickly joined in too. 

~~~~

_ The next day, while doing her rounds, Grace found the two paintings Klaus did. She insisted they hang them up, which is how he found himself stood next to her and Ben as they watched Diego put them up with the rest of her paintings. For the rest of the day, all his siblings came and complimented him on his work. Even Luther, who stumbled over words about “nice colours” that had obviously come from Allison, but it's the thought that counts.  _

_ The other two ended up in Allison’s room. The one of her sat proudly above her bed, ever the humble woman she was. Its frame had lights embedded in it, and it drew all attention to it. The other painting hung above her door. Most of her siblings never really entered her room; if they needed her, they would stand in the doorway, meaning that only Klaus, herself, and their mother had seen it. She’d laughed when he’d given it to her, and honestly, he’d been laughing as he painted it. Diego did look rather funny in green booty shorts, and the fact that the Robin was taller than Batman really completed the look.  _

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments and kudos kept me warm in the long, dark nights

**Author's Note:**

> Please please please leave comments and kudos it's like, the only thing keeping me going these days.


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